


Shipping

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6431953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe runs into a smuggler he knows well, when off-duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shipping

Poe Dameron has a guilty pleasure. Alright, if you push him, he has several. Everyone does, but not everyone admits to the majority as openly as Poe does, making you wonder if he understands the very _concept_ of guilt.

But he does. Because this is one of them. As one of the Republic’s best pilots, he’s often jet-setting around the galaxy on various missions, and when he doesn’t have to sleep, cramped, in the cockpit of his bird… he finds somewhere local to put his head down.

Normally he will find somewhere mostly respectable, but cheap. He isn’t short on credits, but he does like to be sensible about it. There’s expenses included in his line of work, but if he went over and above the agreed amounts, he’d be paying the difference out of his own pocket. He needs those credits for his retirement (if he lasts that long). He wants a good bird of his own, one he can have forever and ever. One to keep him from being pinned down in one place. 

The dive today is no different. Running water. bed. He pays, and goes to check it out. Then, with his travel bag stashed, his droid safely ensconced and recharging, he goes out to the closest, grimiest, dingiest, seediest dive he can find. He keeps his jacket on (pilots get recognised, and sometimes that’s good, sometimes it’s bad, but it’s almost **always** _interesting_ ), and goes looking for the sound of badly-tuned instruments, the glare of neon lighting, the smell of mind-altering substances and the thrill of being _ill-advised_.

Poe slinks in through the door to somewhere clearly run by the Hutts. They dominate this sector of space, and thus this establishment will be under one of their protections. Signs brightly and rudely tell droids they’re not welcome, and he can distinguish three illegal drugs being pedalled or consumed before he even makes it to the bar. 

He is, however, just a pilot. He might represent the Republic, but he has no legal jurisdiction. Even if he did, if he tried to do anything, he’d likely need to arrest every single patron of the cantina. Plus, that wouldn’t be _fun_. He leans on the surface of the bar, eyes scouring the vari-coloured bottles and vials, the sticks and gases and other recreational things. A good spread, most species’ tastes covered. His eye lights on a brandy he loves, and his tongue slips out to wet his lips in anticipation. Beside him, a Rodian eyes him up and down, and Poe is flattered.

Not his type, but he’s still flattered. He gives the Rodian a wink when his drink comes, toasting him, and tossing it back in one, smooth swallow. It burns all the way down, settles in the pit of his belly, and the chalky after-taste on his tongue and lips is deeply satisfying. You can tell you’ve had this, when you have. There’s nothing quite like it. 

He’s busy leaning back against the bar (both elbows now lightly stuck to it) admiring the clientèle (varied, loud, somewhat violent) and the entertainment (atonal, arrhythmic, but great lekku-swinging backing dancers), so he doesn’t hear the little throat-clearing noise to his left immediately. When he does, he turns to see a short - maybe six inches tall - spindly creature standing on the bartop.

“Bottle for you,” it tells him. “All for you.” One of its limbs gestures, and the barman hands him the whole glass receptacle of brandy. 

“Thanks, but to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks.  


“Man. Man in booth.” Another wave, and there’s three of said booths. All slightly split off from one another, to give some semblance of privacy. One of them has a gaggle of multiple species drinking happily around a dancing girl, another looks like there’s many people there, judging by the boots he can see under the table, and the last one… looks empty, and therefore probably isn’t.  


Poe decides he should see who his benefactor is, and if it’s wise to drink this, or not. He takes the bottle and his glass, and pushes through the crowds to see who the man is.

When he gets there, the occupant has both feet up on the table, long legs taking over half of it up, long arms draped over the back of the seat. He’s dressed simply enough: an open-necked shirt that makes slow love to his chest and runs away from his throat; sleeves that probably can button down, but look like they never do; workman’s boots; and heavy-duty slacks that are scuffed at the knees. One hip has a blaster hanging ready, the other has a more esoteric weapon on open display. Subtle, he is not. 

The man is only a few years younger than Poe, and his skin is darker than he remembers it being, the last time they met. A tumble of dark hair that wanders somewhere between _straight_ and _curly_ , which falls just **so** around his face. He, like Poe, has been blessed with hair that likes him.

Dark eyes flick lazily to him, and his lips quirk sideways in a grin that speaks of long acquaintance. Poe slips into the booth opposite him and pushes the brandy between them, on the table.

“Should have known it was you. No one else has the taste enough to appreciate this,” he says, lifting his next half-full glass to toast him.  


“Unless I didn’t intend on drinking the other half,” Ben Organa-Solo replies, head falling to one side and sending those curls after it.   


“And make me drink this alone? Either you want to kill me, or you’ve lost your mind.”  


“Well. I’m a few ahead of you, but I can always let you catch up,” Ben says, as if granting a huge boon. He uses the Force to slide his own glass closer. There’s some almost-melted icecubes in the bottom, and a slick of watered-down liquor that he didn’t quite drink. It looks a similar colour, and they’ve done worse, so Poe pours it right on top.  


They air-clink glasses, and both take a swig. Poe can’t remember which of them found this drink, first, but now they both love it. Whenever he finds it, it always tastes of Ben. As they both love to frequent these dives, he sometimes wonders if Ben puts the bottles behind the bar waiting for him. After all, their paths cross more often than not. He doesn’t know if that’s Ben using the Force, or his inside contacts, or if it’s just one of those things.

Then again, how many others in here does he bumble past, and never knows? Has he nodded to the Rodian before? Is it the same fifty people, on shuffle, in every cantina he ever goes to? Maybe.

But he knows full well that the only one he’s ever come in looking for is Ben. Ben, who can also sense him from quite a distance, and likely makes a bee-line for the nearest, scummiest place he can find, knowing their paths will then cross. It’s an unspoken arrangement, and one that satisfies them both.

Poe can’t give up his day job, and Ben wouldn’t ask. Poe doesn’t think Ben could ever settle and be a pilot’s kept thing. Once he’d announced he was never going to be a Jedi and walked off from that side of things (still keeping his yellow-bladed Sentinel’s saber) and wandered from job to job, slinking further away from his glorious roots and into his… less glorious roots… that was all the proof Poe needed that Ben wasn’t the settling type.

He also knows that Leia isn’t too happy that her son’s decided to become a scoundrel like his father, but she likely thinks he’ll grow out of it. Poe isn’t so convinced. Ben was never like Leia and Luke. He has the Force, sure, but he doesn’t have Leia’s dogged determination, or Luke’s open-minded wonder. He was born jaded, cynical, and difficult to handle. Poe knows, he was there.

This life seems to suit him well enough. He told Poe once about his internal code of ethics, a set of rules he wouldn’t budge on, when they were smashed blind one night and lying on the roof of his motel building, pretending they could see the stars through the light pollution. Poe, in return, told him that he hoped he never had to shoot for real, because he was worried it wouldn’t be as difficult as he thought it would, and he’d rather not see how easy it would be to turn into a killer when following orders. 

Poe wonders if they’ll ever maybe get tired of their mutual freedoms, but for the minute… well. It works out okay for him. He can’t say he’s never fantasised about more, but he also is a pragmatist, and if this is as good as it gets, then he’ll take it.

They swig the first glass (Ben’s first, his third) and slam their tumblers down onto the table in perfect synchronisation. A trick long since learned, and he shares that private smile with his old friend.

“What brings you here?” Ben asks.  


“Classified,” Poe replies, without a pause. “What brings _you_ here?”  


“Something your superiors wouldn’t like,” Ben replies, equally smoothly.  


“Does it bite?”  


“…if you get close enough.”  


“…remind me not to.”  


Drink two-four goes down, or four-two? Maybe he should ignore the solo ones. No pun intended. Poe licks his lips, and watches as Ben’s eyes linger on them, on his tongue. He smacks them open with an audible _kiss_ and leans back, too. His legs would struggle to reach the table, so he doesn’t bother trying. 

“Joking aside,” Ben says, as his eyes go down to the smaller icecubes, watching them slide around with every swirl of his wrist. “The Republic _is_ keeping an eye on that new organisation, right?”  


“The First Order?”  


“That’s the one.”  


“Not… as much as I’d like,” Poe admits.  


“Gotta push them on that. I hear a lot of things, on the streets. None of it is good. You know I heard they were starting up the old Imperial armour production lines?”  


“Really?”  


“White and black.” Ben nods. “We don’t want a repeat of Palpatine.”  


“You hear who’s behind it?”  


A shake of his head. “Some upstart military type, I think. A Tarkin wannabe. Dunno. Intel’s pretty sketchy.”

“You mind me feeding this back?”  


“Would I be telling you if I did?”  


“…maybe?”  


“Just keep my name out as the source, and anything I say is fair game, always,” Ben lets him know.  


Poe is grateful, but he knows if Leia Organa finds out he’s filing confidential informant reports, that she will put two and two together, and it will become increasingly awkward between them.

In goes glass three, and Poe is feeling nicely buzzed. It rolls around in his head, giving everything a slightly fuzzy, soft, bouncy, happy edge. He’s always been a mellow, affectionate drunk. It’s Ben who is the wild one. Ben who normally drags them off on some madcap adventure when they’re way too gone to fly a thing. One of these days they’ll go too far, but so far… he’s not regretted a single night.

…okay. Maybe the one where Ben convinced him to pretend he was a stripper and see how many credits he could get, going from table to table, serenading people and wiggling his butt in their faces.

He’d actually made a profit by the end of that night, then accused Ben of whoring him out, and dragging the Republic’s name into the mud. Ben had found it terribly amusing and made it up to him with his mouth.

So. Possible a minor regret, but not enough to wish he could go back in time and undo it. 

Right now, Ben doesn’t look like he’s about to suggest larceny, impersonation, grifting or anything else dubious. He’s tapping the glass with his nail, then rubbing the tip of his finger over the rim, making it squeak noisily and making Poe’s hair stand on end.

Ben sees him wince, and flashes white teeth. Poe remembers what those teeth feel like, and he looks down at the bottle. “How far is your ship?”

“Ten minutes away. Your rooms?”  


“Twelve.”  


That settles it, then.

***

The walk back to Ben’s ship takes a little longer than ten minutes, but that’s because by the time they get out the door, Ben’s got one arm draped around his shoulders and his nose in Poe’s hair. Poe loves it, and swigs deeply from the bottle (a travesty, but he’s done worse) and then Ben bends down and demands the same treatment, only their respective heights makes it awkward, and then the arm goes around his waist and lifts him up like a really, really big jug to pour the liquid down Ben’s throat. 

Poe laughs, and when some dribbles down onto Ben’s chin, he leans in to lick it clean with a whuff of amusement. That ends up with his toes still trailing the ground, his weight supported, and almost-level kisses in the middle of the hangar bay. It’s late, so not many people are around, but one passer-by tuts at their demonstration. Poe just shrugs it off, and doesn’t complain any more until Ben hoists him over his shoulder, ass up to the sky, arms and head falling over and down Ben’s back, and the alcohol almost being spilt everywhere.

“Warning, next time!”  


“Sorry,” Ben says, and isn’t.  


He’s carried up the gangplank, into the wide goods berth, still swigging the failing remnants of the brandy until he’s put back onto his feet. He offers the last few sips to Ben, who opens his mouth and tips back his head and makes Poe work for it, jumping up onto the balls of his feet to toss the last drops in. Ben grabs the empty bottle, throws it out of the ship, and lets it smash onto the hangar bay floor. 

“Litterbug!”  


“The droids will clean it up,” Ben shrugs.   


“Beside the point!”  


“It’s what they’re there for.”  


“Still beside the point.” Poe folds his arms indignantly over his chest, and Ben bends at the waist to kiss the tip of his angry nose. “Wait. What about the cargo?”  


“What about it?”  


“You said it bites.”  


“I said it _can_. Just… don’t poke any sticky-outy bits of you into any boxes, and you will be fine.”

Poe arches a brow, and then Ben starts to stalk towards him, as he stalks backwards. He likes to put up a bit of resistance, after all, as his fuck-buddy reaches for his hips. Poe tries to get away, but he walks backwards into the bulkhead, right as the hands grab his waist. He’s about to arch up for kisses when he’s spun forcefully around, and he yelps in surprise as Ben pushes him face-first into the cold durasteel.   


“So… sticky-outy bits are a no-no?”  


“I said not in _boxes_ ,” Ben reminds him, and rocks his hips against Poe’s ass.   


So he’s in _that_ kind of a mood, huh? Not that Poe minds. Whatever they do, he enjoys, most thoroughly. He arches his back as much as he can, and rubs and grinds himself against Ben’s groin, trying to feel for the bulge in his slacks. “I see. And the fact that you left the door wide open?”

“Worried someone might see you?”  


“They’ll _hear_ me before they _see_ me,” Poe reminds him. He’s always been a vocal lover, and Ben has a habit of making him howl blue murder. A hand slaps between his legs, and Poe whines and rubs himself against it, wanting the friction, needing more.   


“Maybe I should put my hand over your mouth.”  


“Maybe I’d bite you.”

“Maybe I’d like it.”  


A hand between his shoulderblades, keeping him pinned into place, and the other shoves under the back of his waistband, groping roughly at one cheek then the other, before sliding fingers through the crack and promising more. Poe delivers on his own promise (threat?) to be loud, his guttural approval ringing through and out of the ship. Anyone could hear them, and it just adds to the thrill. Ben is such an asshole, and Poe loves that about him. Poe just doesn’t _enjoy_ the nice guys and girls like he enjoys Ben, and he’s clawing at the wall and humping at his hand in a heartbeat.

“You let anyone fuck you since I had you last?”   


“Nope. Fucked a few. But none in me. How about you?”  


“Had a fun night with two cousins.”  


Poe laughs. “Cousins? Really?”

“Hey, they weren’t _my_ cousins. And anyway, pretty sure they didn’t touch one another. Bit hazy. Lots of drink.”

Poe also loves that he can tell Ben about his sexual exploits and not be judged. Pilots brag all the time, but never to the person they’re fucking. With Ben, there’s absolutely no shame in the fact they both scratch their itches when they aren’t together, as they both know they’ll be clean when they do meet up. Poe moans as Ben pushes a finger into him, dry, and tries to fuck him.

“Babe!”  


“Oh, hush, I know you can take one with no problem.”  


“Just don’t forget it completely,” Poe huffs, snorting through his nose, focussing on the sensation of rough penetration, of being opened up by almost painfully-dry degrees. “Aaaany time soon.”

A bite on his neck, and the finger is removed. He’s held in place with those teeth as both hands grope his clothing for the lube, and when it’s found, his pants are unbuckled just enough to slip down and make room. The finger is back, and Poe moans even louder when it slips in easier, sloppier. Ben has really, really long fingers and he knows how to use them, curling them inside, and turning Poe’s innards to mush. He thunks his forehead to the metal, then spreads his feet and pushes his ass up, just - just - _sweet G-force_ but the man finds his prostate with unerring speed. Poe is breathless and babbling, trying to slam himself onto that finger for more, knees shaking under the effort.

“Like that?” Ben asks.  


“Gnnfgh,” Poe agrees.  


In goes the second finger, and Ben doesn’t graze against that happy button any more, not yet, working on widening him for his lovely dick. Poe doesn’t really ride anyone else’s cock, since he first got a taste for Ben’s. He’s fine fucking guys, but no one else’s has felt so good inside _him_ , and he thinks it’s unfair for him to forever judge other sexual partners, so he makes it clear he’s topping, or it’s other body parts only. Not that most people mind. 

Two fingers, and they spread and flay and twist and turn and tease at his entrance and Poe is _livid_ , but it feels so good. The alcohol buzz means he’s not gonna come fast like a teen, and that’s another reason for flooding his system with it. Not so much that he can’t operate, but not so little that he spurts like a burst pipe. 

“You know, I thought you said you were loud.” 

Ben pushes a third finger in, then he starts to fuck Poe hard with them, so hard he sways on his feet and moans in low bliss. Ben has that wonderful upper-body strength… actually, he’s strong all over. Poe can’t help but appreciate that sheer, raw physicality at times, when it’s being applied to his anatomy from close-up. He howls and curses in something not-Basic (but not fully remembered) at the shocks of pleasure it sends washing through him like waves.

“Better,” Ben coos, and kisses his neck.  


“I’d be louder if you really meant it.”  


“You think I don’t?”  


“Put your credits where your mouth is.”  


“And not my dick where my hand is?”  


“Ass.”  


“Yes, precisely, that’s the body-part in question.”  


Poe shakes his head in wry amusement, and then the fingers are out. _Ahhh, better_. He braces himself for the inevitable, and then - when he gets it - when Ben lines himself up from below (knees bent) and pushes up and in.. it’s bliss. A firm, long, fat dick. Splitting him near enough in two, and making his thighs and his lower back ache with dull pleasure. He wails some more when the movements start, and then there’s a blanket of Ben across his back and hands that hold his in place.

Right now, Poe feels utterly embraced. Thighs against his, chest to chest, arms that drape over his own and press his palms into metal… barely an inch of him isn’t covered in Ben. His fuck-buddy works his hips with a dancer’s grace, up and twist and down and up and twist and down. Each rut into him sending sparking heat through his whole body, making his dick leak with barely-repressed longing. Ben plays him like he knows Poe’s buttons better than he does himself, and that’s probably true. With every last slam inside, his need edges higher and his calls get more broken, more hungry.

Then, in the distance, there’s the sound of footsteps. Poe freezes, and so does Ben. They’re locked together, and neither can reach the button to close the gangway entrance. (Okay, so Ben has the Force, but Poe doesn’t think of that right off.) 

All Poe can think is _what if someone sees them_? He opens his mouth to protest, only to find a broad hand slaps across it. Eyes wide, he complains against palm and fingers as Ben starts up again, in earnest. He can do nothing but endure it, and he finds himself leaning backwards, head on Ben’s shoulder, as the younger man fucks him so hard his balls tense up. He’s going to come, and he’s going to come hard. He’s so close, so damn close, and he tries to convey this loudly in his head so Ben can hear it. He _needs_ it. He needs it like air.

“Don’t you scream,” Ben whispers, and grabs hold of his cock.

He strokes him hard, hard and sudden, and Poe _does_ scream internally as loudly as he can. The pleasure is sharp, sharp and illicit, and someone might _walk past at any minute_ and see a Republic Commander being bounced up and down on a smuggler’s dick. A hand over his mouth and his eyes all but closed, spurting into his hand, over his ship, over his shirt, tensing deep down inside as his eyes roll back into his skull.  


Poe moans in complaint when he’s spent and Ben isn’t. His body can’t take any more stimulus, and the hand on his cock stills to a choke-hold, keeping him from jiggling as Ben continues to use him. He’s boneless and sated, and he almost wants to just fall asleep right then and there, on Ben’s dick, held up in his arms. He feels all sort of floaty and light, happy and content, and when Ben bites down on the crook of his neck in his own, broken climax… it’s one of the best feelings in the galaxy. The warm, salty gushing deep inside, the way Ben’s breathing goes fractured and arrhythmic against his throat. He’s so big that nothing leaks out, not while he’s held in place by simple gravity. He allows himself the smallest purrs of pleasure, and then Ben is slipping out from inside of him. 

There’s a trail of sticky come along the inside of his thigh, and he leans into the metal again as Ben goes to seal up the hatch. His thighs ache, but pleasantly so, and his insides throb with belated pleasure. He peers over his shoulder at the man who fucks him out of his head, and smiles.

“When’s your cargo due?”  


“Not until late tomorrow.”  


“And the time to get there?”  


A laugh. “Don’t worry about that. I’m _never_ late.”


End file.
